


Nothing Serious

by RogerTaylorCanRawMe



Series: Queen One-Shots [21]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Bottom Daddy Roger, D/s, Daddy Kink, F/M, Modern AU, Sugar Daddy, Tinder, weekends at one of his villas where he gets you to call the shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-08 21:53:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17989178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerTaylorCanRawMe/pseuds/RogerTaylorCanRawMe
Summary: He's a recently divorced musician. And you just want a quick lay. Neither of you wants anything serious. Or do you?





	1. Tindering It Up

**Author's Note:**

> surprise! guess who has 3 works in progress now?

It was a Friday evening, and you had just got off work. Not that you had plans.

All your friends had partnered up and gone away on romantic weekends away.

Leaving you alone, with no plans.

On the plus side, you had a laundry list of shows to binge watch, and a full fridge of goodies, that would most likely last until Saturday morning. If you were lucky.

Flopping down on the couch, you fired up the first show on your list and settled down, fully prepared to fester for two days. Bliss, you thought, absentmindedly opening Tinder for a glimpse of what could be. If you could stomach the dating game.

You must have swiped left on a hundred people in the space of ten minutes, never bothering to read their self absorbed ‘about me’ sections, or to look at more of their photos. Until Roger (37 years old, 20 kilometres away) popped up.

He was handsome. Recently divorced. And a musician.

But 37 was too old. You were only kidding yourself as you set your search parameters, casting the net as wide as possible to get a glimpse of the kind of men who were on the app. He was too old. But too intriguing to reject. So you swiped right. And then went back to your show.

The Umbrella Academy wasn’t boring, per se, but every now and again, your eyes would be drawn towards your phone on the coffee table, wondering whether Roger had come across your face among the gaggle of girls he almost certainly had vying for his attention.

When the first episode was over, you padded through to the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. You couldn’t help but kick yourself for not giving his profile enough attention. You spent longer looking at him than anyone else, and yet, you still hadn’t bothered to scroll through his photos or read his bio. You swiped right without thinking. And now, he was all you could think about.

How much money did he make? Did he have kids? Was his ex-wife a total nutter?

You stood, drumming your fingertips against the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. Until you heard your phone vibrate.

Never in your life had you moved so fast, darting through to the living room and almost knocking over a lamp. You picked up your phone and looked at your notifications. Sure enough, there it was, ‘you have matched with Roger.’

Throwing yourself back on to the couch, you could feel your cheeks burning as a shrill squeal escaped your lips. It felt utterly alien to you to even match with someone you were actually attracted to, so you were determined to make a good impression. Staring up at the ceiling, your lips moved slowly, trying to verbalise what you were going to open your conversation with and all the ways you could woo him straight off the bat. A simple, ‘how are you?’ wasn’t going to suffice.

‘How YOU doin’ tonight?’ Uncool.

‘Any plans for the weekend?’ Boring.

‘Have I heard of your band before?’ Better.

And then your phone vibrated again.

You looked down to see a notification flash up and disappear. ‘Roger has sent you a message.’

Your stomach churned. They never messaged first. At least he was keen, you thought, unlocking your phone to read what he had sent.

‘If you were a fruit, you’d be a fine-apple.’

You snorted, feeling your face burn up even more. It was a stinker of a line. A stinker that somehow made your heart flutter.

Just as you were hovering your thumbs over your keyboard to type a response, another message popped up.

‘Sorry, that was rotten.’

And another.

‘It’s really nice to match with you. Any plans for the weekend?’

He stole your boring line.

Game on!


	2. What Are You Looking For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On an average Monday night, you'd come home from work, change into your pyjamas and embark on another night of wrestling with your self-loathing. But not tonight. Roger's coming over. And you're still very conflicted about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ach, idk. This was hard to write. Have a good weekend, folks.

You and Roger spent the whole weekend messaging back and forth about everything from your favourite films to what your favourite holiday destination was. It turned out he was charming, witty and slightly filthy. And, despite your qualms about his age, you found yourself aching to see what he was like in real life.

It was Monday morning. Sat at your desk, you desperately clung to any focus you could muster for your work, but in the back of your mind, you couldn’t help but wonder when Roger's next message would appear. You prayed it would be soon. You had a mountain of paperwork to do, but precisely zero willpower.

By midday, you were losing hope. Maybe he was too good to be true? Packing up your desk to go to lunch, you decided to leave your phone behind. But as you walked away, you heard it vibrate.

You darted back to your desk and desperately eyed it.

‘What’s the difference between a tyre and 365 used condoms?’

It sent you into a fit of giggles that earned you disapproving looks. You hurriedly tapped out a quick, ‘I don’t know,’ before stowing your phone in your pocket and following the mass exodus to the canteen.

Your heart felt like it was going to escape from your chest as you waited for the punchline to yet another dirty joke.

He quickly replied: ‘One’s a Goodyear, the other’s a great year! Doing anything nice tonight, gorgeous? Hope you're having a lovely day!’

——————————————————————————————————————————

A few hours later, you were sprawled on the sofa, bouncing your leg impatiently. On a weeknight, you would typically come home and change straight into your pyjamas for another night of wallowing in self-pity. But not tonight. Roger was coming over. And you were determined to impress.

You had swapped your joggers and a plain old t-shirt for a short, black tea dress. You even did your makeup; a rarity past 5.30, for you.

The clock ticked away at an impossibly slow pace as it dawned on you that Roger was late. He said he'd be there for seven. It was five past.

You got up to pace back and forth across the living room. Your mind wandered, anticipating what your evening with Roger would entail.

What would you talk about? You had covered a lot of ground over the weekend.

Would you watch a film? You knew he was into sci-fi. You could do sci-fi. Get drunk? On a school night, really?

Sleep with him?

That last question stopped you in your tracks. It wasn’t as if you didn’t want to. That was precisely the reason you joined Tinder, as tough as it was to admit. After speaking to him all weekend, you actually kind of liked Roger. You wanted to get to know him before you fucked him.

Your brain felt like it had just run a marathon when there was a knock at the door.

It made your stomach drop, and your legs turn to jelly as you dashed through the hall to answer it; your mind blank and exhausted. With a deep breath, you turned the handle and cracked the door open, peering out into the hall.

Roger peeked through the gap, a mischievous smile on his face. “Hi,” he beamed. "Sorry, I'm late."

Seeing him prompted you to fling the door further open. “Hi." That was all you could muster.

Roger quickly pulled you into him, squeezing you tightly. “It’s so nice to meet you,” he mumbled against your hair.

He smelled incredible. Like sandalwood and pine forests, enticing you to bury your face against his collarbone. “And you,” you sighed.

All those worries in your head melted away, but there was something between both of your bodies. Breaking away from Roger’s embrace, you looked down to find a bunch of flowers and two bottles of wine tucked into the crook of his arm. As you gazed up at him, you completely forgot how to form words. It seemed like he did too.

Luckily he noticed your stare trailing down to the flowers and the wine. Red and white. He sprang up on his feet, remembering what was happening. “Oh! These are for you. Couldn’t come empty handed and I wasn’t sure…” He babbled, passing them to you.

“They’re perfect," you smiled, waving him inside, "Come in.”

You led roger through the hall and into the living room, motioning him towards the couch. “Make yourself at home. What do you want to drink?”

Roger shrugged. “Whatever you’re having.”

The kitchen felt like it was worlds away, granting you a short reprieve from Roger’s company. He was so much more handsome in real life, you thought, rifling through your cupboards. So handsome, in fact, that you had forgotten when you kept your wine glasses. “The ones above the sink, fuck,” you grumbled to yourself, throwing open the cupboard and snatching the glasses. You tried to even yourself out with what little time alone you had, pressing your hands into the edge of the counter and bowing your head. Deep breaths.

A clatter from the living room pulled you back to reality. You hastily dunked the flowers in the sink and grabbed your drinks, to see what the commotion in the living room was.

When you got back to Roger, you found him picking some records up off the floor. “What are you doing?” you asked.

Roger looked up at you wearing a coy smirk. “Sorry. Had to make sure you weren’t a crazy fan.”

“Right.”

“It’s happened before,” he added, getting to his feet. “You’ve got good taste though.”

You sat the bottle and the glasses down on the coffee table and joined him over by your boxes of records.

He skimmed through your collection. “I can’t believe people still buy these,” Roger laughed, taking out a copy of Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born in the USA.’ “Don’t tell me this is some new hipster wanker thing? Buying LPs?” he asked, eyeing you with his eyebrows raised.

You snatched the record from his grasp, screwing up your features. “I’ll have you know, vinyl is far superior.”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Yeah, with all that crackling and popping, it’s bound to sound better.”

“It’s all about the listening experience,” you sneered, taking the record out of its slipcase and placing it on the turntable. “You can’t be passive when you’re listening to records. It gives you more of a chance to absorb it.”

“I believe you,” Roger chuckled.

“And besides, you haven’t told me what kind of music Queen play,” you added, waltzing back to the sofa.

Roger flopped down next to you, watching as you poured his drink and handed it to him. As he was about to take a sip, his eyes narrowed. “Do you know something? I’m shocked you haven’t heard of us.”

“Why’s that?” you asked, glaring at him.

“Well, you’ve got the music taste of a forty-year-old man for starters.”

You choked on your wine. He was on to you. But now wasn’t the time to tell him you had spent the entire weekend researching his band. Or the shame you felt when you realised how big they were. Or that you had overlooked them this long. Or that you loved their work. “Maybe you’re just not that good,” you grinned.

Roger shrugged. “That’s just one woman’s opinion, I suppose.”

“I suppose it is.”

“I’m glad, actually.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not into me because I’m a rockstar.”

“But it helps,” you admitted.

Roger smirked. “You’ve got a thing for musicians? Never would have guessed.”

“You could say that.”

“So why are you on Tinder?” Roger asked, turning side on to face you. “I’m assuming picking up handsome drummers ranks pretty highly.”

“Well,” you began, moving closer to him, “all I wanted was an easy lay if I'm honest. I've heard drummers are the easiest.”

The corners of Roger’s mouth perked up into a devilish smile upon hearing those words. “How easy are we talking?”

Your stomach fluttered. But you just couldn’t stop yourself. You weren’t even drunk yet. “Depends on how easy you’d like to be.”

Roger’s face was dangerously close to your’s at this point, his nose was practically pressed against yours. “Don’t you want to know what I want?” he prodded.

“Not particularly. No.”

“I love a girl who knows what she wants,” Roger chuckled, drawing his calloused fingers along your jawline, tilting your face up ever so slightly. Roger wasted no time in replacing his fingers with his lips, pressing kisses along your jaw, before settling on your mouth. His hand was firm at the back of your neck, pulling you into him. You put up little resistance when things became heated, slinking over his lap to deepen the kiss.

Roger’s hands squeezed at your thighs when your tongue slipped past his lips. He was feverish, needy almost in the way that he kneaded your flesh, letting out breathless gasps.

The feeling that things were moving too fast began to claw at your gut. Your movements slowed, eventually breaking away from Roger.

“Are you ok?” he asked, sweeping a stray strand of hair behind your ears. His eyes moved across your features. They were loaded with concern.

More aware of the music playing in the background than before, you moved in time to the last few bars of ‘Downbound Train.’ “I’m fine,” you grinned.

Roger took your hand, looking you right in the eye as he kissed your palm. “Are you sure?”

You didn’t respond. All you could do was take Roger’s hand as you scrambled to your feet. Leading him out into the middle of the living room with a wicked smile on your face, you pulled him into you, swaying along to ‘I’m On Fire.’ “Do you like dancing, Roger?”

Roger chuckled, twirling you around. When you were face to face again, Roger pressed his nose to yours. “Only if I have the right partner.”

You danced slowly, intimately, until Side A spun out, leaving the pair of you rocking aimlessly away in silence. Your face was pressed to his chest, revelling in his scent. His arms bound you tight against him, and his chin perched on top of your head. And for just a second, you thought you had died and gone to heaven.

“Tell me something,” Roger said, breaking the quiet calm. “Are you really just looking for an easy lay?”

You continued to dance in circles while you thought up a response. Your heart was beating frantically at the thought you might have been wrong about what you wanted. “Are you looking for something more than the odd dirty weekend at the villa?”

Roger’s chest rattled with a warm laugh. “Touché. Are you going to flip that record or are we gonna dance in silence all night?”

It was near impossible. As hard as you tried, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to move away from Roger.

So he did it for you. He moved over to your record player and flipped the album over on to side B, while you got to work on refilling your glasses. “I love this song,” Roger said, nodding in approval.

“Are you a big Springsteen fan?” you asked, handing his glass back to him.

“Nothing beats Springsteen in the eighties.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you said, raising your glass.

Your glasses clinked together, and suddenly the realisation kicked in. The quicker either of you set about drinking more, the faster any awkwardness between you could dissipate. Before you knew it, you were on your fifth glass. And you had worked your way through yet another of Springsteen’s albums, ‘Nebraska.’

You and Roger sat side by side giggling away on the couch, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. It had you conflicted, though. Not wanting to come on too strong, or be too intense. But you weren’t keen on being sidelined by Roger. He was handsome, witty and it was so easy for you to feel comfortable around him. You could see yourself being happy with him; you felt it in your gut that he was more than the easy lay you wanted. But there was so much you needed to know. Your mind raced. And your face sank.

Roger noticed and he softened his gaze, running his fingers through your hair.

“What exactly are you looking for, Roger?”

“Do you want me to be honest?” Roger slurred.

You nodded.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Just tell me.”

“I hate being on my own. I don’t want it to be that way.”

“I get that.”

“Now what do you want?” Roger asked, jabbing his finger against your chest.

You rolled your eyes, knowing your motivations weren’t so different to his. “I hate being alone too,” you admitted, not being able to look at him. Instead, you stretched out your arms lazily. “Guess that makes us a pair of losers.”

Roger looked away, his eyes misting over. “Guess it does.”

Roger’s sudden, sullen demeanour had you desperate to change the subject. “So where is this villa of your’s and how dirty are we talking?”

“What villa?”

Your heart sank. “You said you had a villa.”

“I have more than one, but I like the one in Ibiza the best.”

You honestly felt like you were on a rollercoaster, wondering just how rich Roger must be to afford so many homes. “You have more than one?”

Roger was nonchalant as he shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “I have the filthiest times in Ibiza, but I’m not averse to the one in LA. Especially in the winter. I hate the cold.”

“When do I get to go out there?” you joked. “How filthy do I have to be for you to take me out there?”

“I’m always up for a holiday,” he grinned. “When are you free?”


	3. Mile High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Roger embark on an unconventional second date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Sorry I'm a bit late updating this week. As some of you know, I won't be posting updates on tumblr anymore, so thanks to those of you who have followed my work on to here. I'm really grateful for the support. I love you!
> 
> As always, feedback is hugely appreciated - I can't stress this enough.
> 
> Aside from that, I'm on holiday, I can't wait to get some writing done here in sunny Montreux!

Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing as you waited patiently by the window. Pressing your knuckles to your lips, you paced, keeping your eyes trained on the street below. Roger would be here any minute now, and you had intended for your exit to be as swift as possible. A suitcase and a bag sat beside the door, containing everything you thought you needed for your trip to Ibiza.

It had taken you three days to make the decision. You lay in bed every night since Monday, riddled with intrigue about his motivations. You didn’t even know him very well. It was insanity at best, agreeing to it; but you couldn’t help but feel like whatever you were embarking on with Roger, it wasn’t exactly conventional. Rather, it was rare.

He made you laugh and put you at ease. And you would be lying if you claimed he didn’t make you smile. After all, it was one particular remark - 'that villa’s where I keep all ten of my wives, chained up in the basement' - that was the kicker. It tipped the scales all the way to a resounding ‘yes’ from you.

‘Any time now,’ you repeated to yourself, trying to block out the racket of your phone. You had lost count of the number of messages your friends had sent, attempting to dissuade you. But the backflips your stomach did when a strange, black Mercedes slipped into view told you everything you needed to know about your decision.

Grabbing your handbag, and your suitcase, you burst from your flat, trundling your brimming case noisily down the stairs. Your heart felt like it was working overtime as you flung open the front door.

A chauffeur stood by the back door of the car as Roger fell out on to the street, beaming at you.

“There she is!” He stretched out his linen-clad arms, ushering you into a hug. He felt even softer, smelled even better, more comforting and familiar than he did on Monday. He certainly hugged you tighter, propping his chin up on your head. “You all set?” he mumbled, kissing your hair.

“God, I’m so nervous," you squeaked.

Roger held you away from him. From underneath his dark tinted lenses, you could tell his eyes were darting over the windows of the flats behind you, searching for intrusive gazes and curtain pullers. Then his attention snapped back to you, a look of seriousness cloaking his features as he gripped your shoulders just a little bit tighter. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. It’s your trip, you can enjoy it however you want.” He paused, looking down. The corners of his mouth perking up. “And I’m a bit nervous too, actually.”

Shattering the moment into millions of tiny fragments, the chauffeur cleared his throat audibly. “I’ve just put your suitcase in the boot, Miss. We should be going soon.”

“Yeah, thanks Lewis,” Roger piped up.

The pair of you bundled yourselves into the back seat. The saloon was cramped, unaided by you and Roger’s need to sit almost on top of each other. Both of you searched for something to say, but, over the week, you seemed to have covered everything in your texts and long-winded phone calls. From Queen’s creative differences in the studio and all of Roger’s frustrations with that to stakeholders messing you about at work with their half-baked briefs and their fake deadlines. You touched on it all. And now, you were wondering what else there was to say, as your knee constantly knocked against Roger’s.

Your thoughts turned to spending an entire flight in his company. How awkward that might be if you didn’t find something. And fast.

Luckily, the townscape whizzed past you at breakneck speed. You had only spent the longest ten minutes of your life in the car beside him before it was navigating its way through the airport complex. A wave of relief loosened you up, seeing the ‘drop off’ sign straight ahead. But those hoped were dashed when the chauffeur bypassed it.

“I think you’ve missed the drop-off,” you said, leaning towards the driver.

“Oh, he never misses,” Roger smirked, focusing on the view from his window.

You sank back, furrowing your brow as the car pulled up to another security barrier. You couldn’t quite pick up on what Lewis was saying, but it was enough to raise the arm and allow you past.

Your jaw dropped as the car rounded the corner on to the tarmac. “How the hell are you able to do that?” you asked, turning to Roger. “What about security? Baggage-”

Roger laughed, placing his arm around you. “When you’re in one of the world’s biggest rock bands, normal airport procedure doesn’t really apply, darling. But if you’re shocked by this, wait until you see the plane.”

“The plane?”

Roger pointed to the small plan directly in front of the car. “That plane.”

Your eyes widened. “You own that?”

“Well, it’s chartered, darling. Not exactly. It’s very nice inside, though. Comes with a couple of stewardesses.”

It turns out ‘nice’ was an understatement. Never in your life had you seen that level of opulence. Your eyes were on everything as Roger led you into the cabin. Every gold accent, every marble surface, every red leather seat. Complete with two blonde and beautiful stewardesses who handed you a glass of champagne each. It was jarring, tacky and screamed ‘money.’

You followed Roger to the middle of the aircraft, where he threw himself on to one of the sofas with a relieved groan, sprawling out like a starfish. You roamed towards the bathroom, swigging away at your champagne, your mind overloaded by the situation. You poked your head inside the obnoxiously pristine cubicle. Ryanair hadn’t a patch on this. You could throw an entire orgy in here, and still have room for a few more. There was even a bottle of lube, and a bowl of condoms sat on the counter. You had a feeling people like Roger used the plane for just that. “You could easily join the mile high club in here,” you thought aloud.

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t touch anything if I were you. Steven Tyler was in here last week. God knows what he gets up to.”

“It’s beautiful,” you replied, sauntering back to Roger.

“I’m glad you like it." Roger observed you throwing back the rest of your drink. “You look like you needed that.”

You simpered, not wanting to meet Roger’s line of sight. “I did. And I think I’m going to need more.”

“More’s definitely good,” he laughed.

Without him asking, one of the stewardesses brought over a bottle, bending down at the waist to present it to Roger. It granted you both an impressive view of her cleavage. But Roger was having none of it. “That’ll be everything, thank you, Claudia,” Roger said, taking the bottle from her, his attention still on you.

Roger’s shirt was unbuttoned down to his chest, and your head had somehow found itself resting on his bare skin. You gazed up, over the crisp white edge of his shirt, as he poured you both drinks, handing you your glass.

Settling into a comfortable position as the plane took to the skies, Roger’s arm found its way around your shoulders, and his lips littered kisses over your forehead between sips of his drink.

“You must be loaded,” you pondered. “How many years have Queen been going?”

“Well over fifteen now, I think, why?”

“You must have seen a lot.”

“I’ve seen everything,” Roger chuckled.

“Where’s your favourite place in the world?”

“Hm, that a tough one. I love Japan. It always has this amazing energy to it. It’s brimming with people, everywhere, but it still manages to have a lot of calm about it. And the food? God, it’s delicious. Could eat Japanese food all the time.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Never would have thought that about you.”

“Guess I’m just full of surprises.”

“Bet the industry’s changed a lot from when you started out,” you mused, turning from your side to your back, Roger’s arm snaking around your waist.

“You have no idea. It’s sort of soul destroying. All this streaming business," he began. You hung on his every word. "If people really knew how little we get from that, I hope they’d think twice and just buy a bloody album like they used to. I’ve seen a lot of good bands go under because they can’t afford to live.”

“And how have Queen lasted this long?”

“I guess it’s because we’re not just ‘good.’ We’re more than that.” He sighed, draining another glass. “I’m glad we made our millions and constantly toured in those early days. Enough to outlast everyone else in the long run. Now, we can do what we like. It’s all down to the fans, really, isn’t it? God, I sound like I’m giving an interview.”

“I like hearing you ramble, by the way,” you encouraged. “Bet you’ve met some crazy ones though.”

“Some of them can be intense… yeah, but-”

“And you’re out there on Tinder for the world to see. Dating women half your age,” you jibed, sitting up straight. You turned around, looking at him. His cheeks were flushed as he nodded away, agreeing with everything that came out of your mouth. “How have you not ended up dead, yet?”

Roger batted his hand through the air. “No one pays any attention to the drummer. It’s that rotter, Freddie, everybody fawns over! And besides,” Roger paused, moving just inches away from your face, “You’re not planning to kill me, are you, darling?”

“How would you know?”

Something in Roger’s demeanour changed. His eyes, sleepy and half-lidded, seemed to turn to glass as he looked away, sinking in on himself. “Guess I’m just a good judge of character. Or at least I hope I am, after everything.”

Unsure of whether your newfound courage was down to the champagne or the chip in Roger’s happy-go-lucky facade, you felt emboldened to ask. To delve deeper into his past. After all, he was a complete stranger this time last week. A stranger you couldn’t help but care about now. You couldn’t stop yourself. “Is this about the divorce?”

Sure you had done your research, read all the articles written on the internet about his messy separation. But you felt compelled to hear everything from Roger. However, nothing could have prepared you for the look of sheer hurt his eyes pierced you with. “It is.”

Backing away from him, you fumbled with your hands in your lap. You crossed the line. Too much too soon. How could that possibly have been the case with you and Roger was anyone’s guess, but the silence that fell over you two had you eyeing the emergency exit, wondering if you could survive a 27,000-foot drop into the sea.

“Put some music on, will you, darling,” Roger said, taking your empty glass and refilling it. “Anything you like. Just plug your phone in.” He nodded towards a towering sound system at the back of the plane.

You went over to it and pulled out your phone. You felt like an idiot, but you had already made a playlist loaded with songs that reminded you of him. Your finger hovered over the shuffle button, deliberating whether to put it on. Eventually, you gave in and hit the button, letting the first few bars of Moonage Daydream to pour from the speakers, making the cabin vibrate.

“I love this song,” Roger shouted above the music.

You turned back to him, feeling the rush of nervousness in your chest, seeing the way he was staring at you. Aided by the champagne, you began to dance, sensing his gaze relishing every inch of you and the way you moved. The way you swept through the blistering rays that shone through the windows. The halo it created around you.

He sank back on the sofa, enjoying your little show.

Time flew as you covered every inch of the cabin floor. “Aren’t you going to dance with me?” you pouted, nearing the end of the track.

“I much prefer watching you, darling,” Roger said, lowering his sunglasses over his eyes.

“What if I put on something you’ll really like?” you pushed with another quick twirl.

“Try me.”

You went back over to the sound system and scrolled through the collection of songs, halting at the perfect number. You glanced over your shoulder at Roger’s reaction.

“Cover Me?” Roger asked, raising his eyebrows. “I’m not gonna lie, darling, I’m tempted.”

You shimmied over to him. His foot, tapping away. Fingers drumming against the back of the sofa. Looking up at you, towering over him, he smirked.

“You’re gonna have to make me.”

You accepted that challenge, laughing to yourself. In one fell swoop, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him to his feet, sending the remainder of its buttons popping free.

Roger quietly stood in front of you, dying to break out in a fit of hysterics. He so desperately wanted to move with you. But he made you do all the work.

But that was how you wanted this scene to play out. You wanted to be in control. To tease. He was so strung out that even the feeling of your fingertips curling through the hair on his chest made his breathing hitch. You prowled around him, working the fabric down his arms, pressing into his shoulders. “You’re so tense,” you remarked. “Don’t tell me I got you all worked up this fast.”

“You should be so lucky,” Roger quipped, attempting to play it cool. Full circle, you stalked into view again. His expression flipped from a broad grin to a look of false seriousness.

“That’s funny,” you began, pressing yourself into him, “because that cock of yours feels pretty hard to me. Did you like what you saw?”

Roger was still wearing a wicked smirk, trying to avoid making eye contact with you. Instead, he concentrated on something over your shoulder, leaving you both in silence for a moment.

Then, when you least expected it, he barged past you, seizing your hand on the way to the back of the plane. He dragged you all the way to the bathroom. Bundling you inside and slamming the door closed.

Before you knew it, you were sandwiched between Roger and the counter.

His calloused hands shook, fumbling with the buttons on your blouse, distracting himself with nipping at the sensitive skin on your neck. And taunting you. “So you like teasing me, Princess?” He murmured, yanking your shirt off.

Your fingers snaked into Roger’s hair, while your free hand took the opportunity to ghost over Roger’s cock through his jeans. “Actually, I like what happens when I tease you.” Your sass was short-lived; Roger had taken to pinching your nipples through your bra, in time to his lips marking you up. It made you throw yourself back against the mirror, granting him easier access to the rest of you.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured, moving lower over your chest.

All you could do was tug your lower lip between your teeth, watching as he made his way down. Your bra was gone before you knew it, and his hands had already found their way to the zipper on your jeans. Roger kneeled down, lavishing your stomach with slow wet kisses, looking up at you through his lashes. His fingers clawed at the waistband of your jeans, dragging them lower - your underwear with them - into a pool around your ankles.

You could feel that tremendous sense of need spreading through you like wildfire. You struggled, even just to breathe, driving your hips against Roger’s efforts. Your fingers laced into his hair. It was a feeble effort at leading him to where you really needed him.

Of course, Roger noticed, smiling to himself. He grasped at your thighs, causing you to falter. “I can’t wait to taste you, Princess. Would you like that?”

“Yes please,” you sang, clutching the edge of the counter for support.

“Hop up there. Let’s get a good look at you.”

Without missing a beat, you hauled yourself atop the freezing marble counter, lewdly opening your legs for Roger.

He seemed like all his Christmases had come at once. Like he wasn’t sure where to look, or even where to place his hands. They just skimmed, ponderously over your inner thighs, never quite reaching the spot where you so urgently craved him.

“Are you going to stand there all day, Roger?”

That drew a response out of him. The realisation that he required to actually do something, rather than gawp at you for hours. Not that he would have minded. “Right, boss,” he smirked. The switch had been flipped again. He settled between your legs, dragging his thumb over your slick, pink folds, savouring just how aroused you were. “So pretty,” he remarked, before leaning in.

One long, lazy lap of you was all it took for all your inhibitions to melt away. Those tense and taut muscles in every part of your body seemed to loosen up, while Roger’s mouth continued to devour and savour every dripping wet inch of you. And then an almighty shockwave hit you. Roger’s tongue expertly circled your clit, stringing you out again, forcing a surprised moan from you.

Roger’s self-satisfied chuckle reverberated through you like a series of aftershocks.

It had you wondering what his next trick was.

He was hellbent on making quick work of you, his tongue zeroing in on your sensitive little nub, making you writhe against him. Ratcheting up your pleasure until it felt like all your nerves were on fire. And then slipping a finger inside you. And then another. And another. Curling them in on themselves, like they were daring you to claw at Roger’s hair with just a little bit more aggression. Daring you to howl louder for him.

“You having that tight little cunt of yours stretched, don’t you, Princess?” Roger taunted, moving back to look up at you, his chin glistening.

“Yes,” you cried.

Roger took great pleasure in watching your attempts at fucking yourself on his fingers, but you just couldn’t overcome his own efforts.

After all, you could feel your orgasm beginning to build, and it was all down to him. You weren’t exactly in control of your body or the things that came out of your mouth. But the words that tumbled from them shocked you as you urged Roger on. “Just like that, Daddy.” It was as if your body had been torn in half out of shame and pure ecstasy.

Roger never said anything about it. In fact, you could practically feel him grinning as his mouth delved back down to finish what he had started.

“Oh, god, Daddy, I’m so close.” There it was again.

It raised nothing but a giggle from Roger.

Between that, his mouth and his fingers, you were teetering on the brink of something wonderful.

“Repeat it, Princess,” Roger urged, “tell me how good I make you feel.”

“Da-”

Before you could finish that sentence, you lost control, viciously trembling on Roger’s fingers.

You still saw stars when the realisation hit. Roger had flipped you over, leaving you face to face with your own reflection. He was fumbling away in the background with a condom wrapper. “That was amazing,” you panted, burying your face in your arms.

Roger ran his thumb over your slit again. “It’s not over yet, sweetheart.”

You swayed your hips in response, smirking over at him in the mirror.

“You want Daddy’s cock in you, Princess?” His expression was just as wicked.

You nodded, still making eye contact with him.

But he taunted you. “I wanna hear you say it,” he said, drawing the tip of his cock through your folds, coating it until it was slick with your juices.

“Please Daddy, I need your cock inside me,” you whined.

“I’m never gonna tire of hearing you say that, Princess,” he said, slipping into you.

Roger was far thicker than you had anticipated, forcing a shocked groan from you as he stretched you to your limit. Of course, he was analysing you in the mirror, studying every small change in your expression. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, nodding vigorously, “I think.”

“You want me to go slow?” Roger asked, rubbing the small of your back, moving back.

“No. God no.”

“That’s my girl,” Roger beamed, thrusting into you harder than he did before. “Tell me if it gets too much for you, Princess.”

It was already too much for you in the best way possible. The more pace Roger gathered, the more unsteady your legs felt beneath you. The more he threatened to hurl you over the edge again.

There was nothing left to do but babble on about how incredible he felt. You couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror. Desperate to hold on for just a little bit longer.

“You’re taking Daddy’s cock so well, Princess,” Roger growled in your ear. “And you look so beautiful.” One of his hands had found its way to your hair, pulling you upright while his other arm was squeezed around your waist. He began to goad you. “Look at yourself, Princess, look how good you’re being. Open those eyes.” Even just hearing him say those things sent a shiver through you.

But actually opening your eyes, watching him fill you. Seeing your skin, damp with sweat all because of what he was doing to you. The way you writhed against his grasp, your chest bouncing with every merciless thrust. The sheer lust in his eyes, glancing at your reflection, as he continued to taunt and tease.

“Touch yourself for me. Touch yourself, Princess.”

You did exactly as Roger told you, spinning hasty circles around your clit as that warmth began to build in your stomach again.

“How does Daddy make you feel?”

There it was again. Sending another searing spark through your body. “You make me feel so good, Daddy. Oh god, Daddy, it feels so full,” you whimpered, nearing the end of your rope.

“You're such a good girl for me. Are you gonna come on Daddy’s cock?”

Every time he said it, it drove you closer. And he wasn’t far behind. Your bodies were pressed so tightly together that you could feel the rattle of his breath and every animalistic growl that escaped him, growing more and more ragged.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Your head felt like it was spinning; everything that was happening had made you delirious. Unable to focus on anything else, you lurched forward over the counter as it hit you. And Roger.

When it all subsided, you turned around to face Roger, who had already started getting dressed again, jeans on, his shirt dangling from his hand. Your chest still heaved, and your body felt like it was on fire. But the look that Roger wore was something else. A complete one-eighty from moments ago. Soft, and warm, he pressed himself against you, glueing you to him. The fine linen of his shirt draped over your shoulders as he placed a series of kisses on your damp forehead.

“That was amazing,” you sighed, wrapping your arms around him.

“I never knew you were that filthy,” he chuckled.

“Well, you did say you wanted dirty weekends at the villa,” you mocked.

“How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted.”

“If you wanna sleep it off, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“Right,” Roger began, unsticking himself from you and unlocking the door, “I’ll leave you to clean yourself up. My shirt looks good on you, by the way.”

* * *

 

The sound of waves crashing drew you back to consciousness. Rolling over, on to your back, you enjoyed the sound, becoming aware of your surroundings. Your chest rose and fell steadily under a light layer of silk, and a gentle breeze seemed to fill the blank space around your body. The last you remembered was falling asleep in Roger’s arms. On the plane. In the air.

Your eyes shot open to find your reflection staring back at you, shrouded in silk sheets and a leopard print throw. Sitting up, you began to take in more of the room. The vast, empty space in the bed. The impersonal feel of the dresser to your right, neither a book nor a photograph adorning it. The way the red curtains wafted into the room. You craned your neck forward, catching the view out of the open balcony doors to be met by a bright blue sea for miles ahead. But there was no one there. No Roger in sight.

Panic seared through you, dangling your legs off the edge of the bed. You let out a great sigh and wandered through the hall. It was lined with gold and platinum discs from all of Queen’s albums and large prints of the band in action. Portraits of Roger and his bandmates looking much younger. ‘Like fine wine,’ you muttered to yourself, sauntering through to the staircase. It looked out on to a grand, marble reception area down by a set of tall, white doors with gold handles. You took in the view for a moment - it was unlike anything you had ever seen or been inside, and certainly not what you expected from Roger when he talked about his favourite villa.

As you began to descend the stairs, something caught your attention. Music. Finally, some sign of life.

You followed the sound down the stairs and through a set of wooden doors at the back of the oval-shaped reception room, into a rustic looking kitchen. Standing at the island, with his back to the door, was Roger. Clad in white shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, he shook his hips to the music, in time with the drinks mixer in his hand.

“This song sounds familiar,” you mused, causing him to jump.

Roger turned around, his glasses askew on his face. The realisation that it was you dawned on him. His form seemed to soften, holding out his arm to beckon you into a hug. “Did you sleep well, darling?” he asked, kissing the top of your head.

“I did, thank you,” you responded, beaming up at him.

Roger shook the mixer, filling the room with the shimmering sound of crushed ice. “I’m making margaritas,” he announced, “want one?”

“I’d love one,” you said, breaking away from Roger’s embrace. Hauling yourself up on to one of the wooden stools around the island, you watched as Roger poured the drinks, finishing them off with a twist of lime. He looked rather pleased with himself, sliding it across the counter to you. He watched, waiting with bated breath, as you lifted the glass to your lips. But then you paused, sitting it back down on the counter. “How did you get me in here while I was asleep?”

“I didn’t wanna wake you,” Roger shrugged. “Just asked the driver if he could give me a hand getting you in and out the car. You never stirred once,” he explained taking a sip of his own drink, nodding in approval. “Christ, that’s good. You must be the heaviest sleeper I’ve ever met. But you did nearly sink an entire bottle of fizz on your own so I won’t hold it against you.”

You laughed, taking a swig of your cocktail. “Good.”

Roger leaned over the counter, closer to you, smirking. “You know, the cleaning lady genuinely thought I’d snapped and brought a dead body back.”

That wasn’t the worst joke Roger had hit you with, but you had made a habit of hyping up the shock value in those little tidbits he shared with you, moving back in your seat, open-mouthed. “She didn’t?”

“Yeah. Guess what I said to her?”

“You told her you were getting laid tonight, didn’t you?” you said, slapping Roger’s arm.

He sunk his teeth into his lower lip, slowly nodding.

“Oh you sick fuck,” you scolded.

“I know you love it though.”

“That’s debatable,” you quipped, taking another sip. “I love this album you’re playing. I can’t help but feel like I’ve heard these songs before, though. What is it?”

“It’s 1989 by Ryan Adams.”

You slammed down your glass and slapped the counter. “That’s where I’ve heard this before! These are Taylor Swift songs!”

Roger narrowed his eyes. “No, they’re not.”

A mocking tone took hold of your voice. With your hands on your hips, you sat up straight. “Uh, yes they are!”

“She can’t bloody write songs like this,” Roger said, rolling his eyes. “This guy, though? Genius.”

“She wrote those songs. And, he’s a known sex pest, Roger,” you explained. “Come to think of it, that’s probably why you like him, right?”

“Well that’s a low blow,” Roger said, sliding his phone across the counter to check it. “So if I’m right about him writing these songs, what do I get?”

“A kick up the arse.”

“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing, darling.”

“And if you’re wrong, you have to take me to all the villas you own. I quite like this one but I’m dying to see what the others-”

“You’re right.”

“What?”

“She did write those songs,” he said, showing you the Wikipedia entry. “You’re right.”

“Told you.”

“Well, short of going to the other villas, what are your plans for the rest of the day, darling?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you sighed, “what do you want to do?”

“It’s your holiday.”

“Honestly, I just want to get out of these clothes and chill out for a bit. I’m exhausted. Maybe you could show me around tomorrow?”

“We could go for a nice drive around the island if you want? Get some nice food, soak up a bit of sun.”

“Sounds good!”

“And just now, why don’t we take the margaritas upstairs and have a nice long soak?”

Like a pair of giddy teenagers, you and Roger raced each other up the marble staircase, and back into the master bedroom. You beat him, of course, and stood aimlessly in the doorway, wondering which door on the wall led to the bathroom. You hadn’t thought to find it when you woke up.

Eventually, Roger caught up. “It’s the first one, darling. But you missed the bigger bathroom, at the top of the stairs,” he explained, taking your hand and leading you back along the hallway. “We’ll never fit in that tiny little shower cubicle in my room.”

“Well I think you need a bigger shower,” you quipped. But you were quickly silenced by the sight of the free-standing tub in the master bathroom. Completely marble, again, with gold accents. You could easily fit an entire football team in it. But what struck you most was the view. The glass of the window stretched from floor to ceiling, providing you with a clear view of the sea and the beach below.

“Why would I get a bigger shower when I could have all ten of my wives in this?” Roger joked, sitting down the margarita jug and glasses on the counter opposite the bath.

“Don’t you get worried people might see you?”

“Why would I get worried? It should be a bloody treat for them.”

You waited patiently as Roger expertly poured bubbles and bath salts into the bathtub. Awkwardly thumbing at the collar of your shirt, you wondered where this was going. If this was going to be anything like the situation on the plane. You weren’t exactly feeling flirtatious anymore. You suddenly felt gross. Unsexy. As Roger began to shed his shirt and shorts. Finally his underwear. Your hands shook as you did the same.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Roger asked with one foot in the bath.

“What?” You asked. “Nothing.”

“Your face is like fizz. You sure you’re alright?”

You laughed. “Guess I’m not as bold when I’m sober.”

Roger sank down beneath the bubbles and peered over the top at you. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sloshed. You could look like Elton right now, and I’d still adore you.”

“You’re not helping,” you said, tugging off your jeans.

Roger watched you, utterly spellbound as you climbed in beside him. “You’re right, I just wanted to get you naked again. What can I do to help?”

You looked at him with one eyebrow raised. It wasn’t as easy as that, but you had to commend his desire to try. “I don’t know. I’m still really nervous,” you shrugged, allowing the warm water to soothe your weary bones.

Roger lolled his head against the side of the tub. He studied you. The way his eyes darted over your features, memorising every detail, told you he was deep in thought. Wondering what he could do to put you at ease. But you could tell he felt defeated. “This is all new to me too,” he sighed.

“You’re far better at this than I am. Waking up here, I had one of those ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ moments. I’m here. In a villa. On an island. With a man that I only met at the start of the week. And he’s far older than I’d ever usually go for.”

Roger’s shoulders sank. His eyes did the same, focusing on the margarita in his hand. “I don’t want you to think I’m some manipulative, perverted old man. I’m sorry if I’ve given you that impression.”

Roger was on the wrong track. You shimmied over to him and ran your fingers over his jaw. “Never! That’s the thing. I like you. This is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done, and here I am, too stuck inside my own head to enjoy it.”

He keened into your touch for a moment, enjoying the contact. “That’s good,” he began, taking your hand and pressing your knuckles to his lips, looking at you with those glassy blue eyes of his. “Because I like you a lot.”

That was it. That was all he had to do to make you melt and throw yourself into his arms. You could think of worse ways to spend your evening, than watching the sun go down, in the biggest bathtub you had ever seen, with a handsome, filthy rich rockstar playing with your hair. “It’s just gonna take a bit of getting used to. Nothing serious.”


End file.
